Preface:
I stumbled across the green screen when I decided to add more challenge to my hunting by trying to get involved in bow hunting. That was back in late 2009. I signed up some months after in 2010, but I'd never call myself a "prominent member". I spend a lot of time lurking depending on what my schedules look like. I did actively bow hunt for quite a few years, but sadly was never able to take an animal. (My most interesting shot is seen in my avatar)
Anyway, over the years (and unfortunately, most recently) you tend to notice that some more prominent members do pass on to the bigger hunting lands. But what I have noticed that remain, are their stories and the stories of them from family and friends. We've all had those moments that aren't truly funny at the time they happen, but they are the sources of much laughter (even in ourselves) around much later camp fires.
As I've gotten older, those stories & memories of family and friends (both current & past) mean even more to me. Along with facing the knowledge that my own passing will ultimately happen, I thought it would be great to just share some of my favorite camp stories, and just miscellaneous stories of my past; although, most of them will center around hunting or just shooting in general.
What started this thinking yesterday, was I had some time to kill inside our beloved green screen and was rummaging thru some older posts of stories about past members. It got me thinking. While most of you don't know me, maybe some of my friends and family (some are aware of my presence here) will find this place after I'm gone and enjoy some of the stories that I enjoyed. Even if they don't, at least I've put them out there for the world to share.
Please keep in mind, I'm not the greatest story-teller. But I'll tell them anyways.
My hunting background:
My Grandpa Mack was the hunter/fisherman of the family. I did not have the opportunity to start hunting at a young age. While I did get to spend many years fishing with him in the Laguna Madre as a youngster, I was never quite old enough to hunt with him before the cancer got there. He passed in '84 when I was twelve. And my Dad was never much into hunting.
So the years passed until my wife and I got married in '95. My FIL (Joe) was a bit of an outdoors type and an avid shooter (more on that later). He was the person that got the wheels turning about hunting for me, but I was in my twenties by then. I started late, but got here as fast as I could!
Joe also got me involved into a lot of things, some of which my wife and his wife weren't all that happy about! Some you'll read about here.
Ken
On to the stories....
First Real Dove Hunt
In truth, my first dove hunt was with my Grandpa Mack when I was about 5 or 6. My Grandma Mack went also to make sure I survived! I don't remember much other than sitting out along some back road down in the Valley, he handed me the shotgun to shoot, and I ended up on my arse after pulling the trigger! Grandma made us leave shortly thereafter...
My first real dove hunt came in '98 a few months after my daughter was born. Some guys from work asked if I wanted to go and I said yes. But give me a couple days to get a gun, some ammo, maybe a camo shirt or two...I literally had nothing! I borrowed my Grandpa's old 870 from my Dad, grabbed a couple boxes of old shells that he had, stopped at Academy for a couple boxes more, and then claimed I was ready. (Yeah right)
We left after work on a Wednesday evening to head down to this guy's property outside of Floresville. Everyone was nice, but I quickly realized that my little Suzuki car might not be up for the challenge of driving out into this guy's field. It then got left behind by the house and I hopped in my friend's truck. The field was probably about 25-30 acres with a couple tree lines along a few edges. The remnants of a water tank nearby. Mostly grass and mesquite were the only things growing.
After about an hour by myself along side the trees, missing almost every bird I aimed at, someone yelled out, "Who's shooting that cannon?!?" The answer for that question didn't come until a little later that evening, but suffice it to say that my heirloom 870 I was using was really my Grandpa's old turkey gun. 28" barrel with a full choke and I had been using up some of the older shells I had pilfered, which were old Remington "high-brass" shot shells in slightly heavier loads. It really was pretty loud!
Just after that question had been raised, I winged a bird that landed out in the middle of the pasture. I went out to retrieve it, and came across my first "not dead" bird. Hmmm....
I stayed out there for a bit trying to figure out what to do. My buddy called out and asked what I was doing still out there as it was supposedly keeping the birds away. "It's not dead!" I hollered. "Well, kill it!" he shouted back.
This became my dilemma: how to kill the bird. No one had ever said anything about how sometimes the bird may not be dead when you go to pick it up! Let alone did they ask if I knew what to do in case! My first thought was to just aim, pull the trigger, and blow its head off. Naw, that will just destroy the bird and waste it. Then in my infinite wisdom, I got an idea...I'll just beat it to death!
I'll set the picture here for ya... I'm on my knees, in two foot tall grass, shot gun in hand, and I'm just wailing on this poor dying bird with the butt of the stock! Every hit doing nothing more than pushing this little bird's head deeper into the dirt. His little eye blinking at me as if to say, "What the (bleep) are you trying to do here?"
In the middle of this fiasco, I hear, "What the (bleep) are you doing?"
"I'm trying to kill it like you said!"
"Pop its head off!"
"HUH?"
I ultimately, didn't have to do that procedure as the bird did end up dying. Although it was probably from laughter at me.
On future hunts for years after and still to this day, whenever someone drops to their knees on the ground and acts like their pounding sand with their gun, the questions is always asked... "Who's this?"
"KEN!!!!!"
Footnote to this first hunt:
While the story above is the highlight reel, it was not the only story-worthy memory from that hunt.
I did get better about killing all the birds I shot at (or at least I thought I did). As the sun was setting, we all gathered around the trucks and were getting ready to start cleaning birds. I had already been to the truck a couple times to drop off birds from my vest and into the cooler I had brought.
As we all gathered around, I went to open the cooler and get my birds out. As soon as the lid opened, a dove came fluttering out and tried to fly away. My buddy instinctively grabbed his shotgun and shot it before it got 30 yds away. Everyone looked at me...
"What? He was dead when I put him in there!"
I truly thought the bird was dead. He had been in my vest for at least 15 minutes after the shot, and then at least another 30 minutes in the cooler.
Either way, the 2nd shot got him!
I stumbled across the green screen when I decided to add more challenge to my hunting by trying to get involved in bow hunting. That was back in late 2009. I signed up some months after in 2010, but I'd never call myself a "prominent member". I spend a lot of time lurking depending on what my schedules look like. I did actively bow hunt for quite a few years, but sadly was never able to take an animal. (My most interesting shot is seen in my avatar)
Anyway, over the years (and unfortunately, most recently) you tend to notice that some more prominent members do pass on to the bigger hunting lands. But what I have noticed that remain, are their stories and the stories of them from family and friends. We've all had those moments that aren't truly funny at the time they happen, but they are the sources of much laughter (even in ourselves) around much later camp fires.
As I've gotten older, those stories & memories of family and friends (both current & past) mean even more to me. Along with facing the knowledge that my own passing will ultimately happen, I thought it would be great to just share some of my favorite camp stories, and just miscellaneous stories of my past; although, most of them will center around hunting or just shooting in general.
What started this thinking yesterday, was I had some time to kill inside our beloved green screen and was rummaging thru some older posts of stories about past members. It got me thinking. While most of you don't know me, maybe some of my friends and family (some are aware of my presence here) will find this place after I'm gone and enjoy some of the stories that I enjoyed. Even if they don't, at least I've put them out there for the world to share.
Please keep in mind, I'm not the greatest story-teller. But I'll tell them anyways.
My hunting background:
My Grandpa Mack was the hunter/fisherman of the family. I did not have the opportunity to start hunting at a young age. While I did get to spend many years fishing with him in the Laguna Madre as a youngster, I was never quite old enough to hunt with him before the cancer got there. He passed in '84 when I was twelve. And my Dad was never much into hunting.
So the years passed until my wife and I got married in '95. My FIL (Joe) was a bit of an outdoors type and an avid shooter (more on that later). He was the person that got the wheels turning about hunting for me, but I was in my twenties by then. I started late, but got here as fast as I could!
Joe also got me involved into a lot of things, some of which my wife and his wife weren't all that happy about! Some you'll read about here.
Ken
On to the stories....
First Real Dove Hunt
In truth, my first dove hunt was with my Grandpa Mack when I was about 5 or 6. My Grandma Mack went also to make sure I survived! I don't remember much other than sitting out along some back road down in the Valley, he handed me the shotgun to shoot, and I ended up on my arse after pulling the trigger! Grandma made us leave shortly thereafter...
My first real dove hunt came in '98 a few months after my daughter was born. Some guys from work asked if I wanted to go and I said yes. But give me a couple days to get a gun, some ammo, maybe a camo shirt or two...I literally had nothing! I borrowed my Grandpa's old 870 from my Dad, grabbed a couple boxes of old shells that he had, stopped at Academy for a couple boxes more, and then claimed I was ready. (Yeah right)
We left after work on a Wednesday evening to head down to this guy's property outside of Floresville. Everyone was nice, but I quickly realized that my little Suzuki car might not be up for the challenge of driving out into this guy's field. It then got left behind by the house and I hopped in my friend's truck. The field was probably about 25-30 acres with a couple tree lines along a few edges. The remnants of a water tank nearby. Mostly grass and mesquite were the only things growing.
After about an hour by myself along side the trees, missing almost every bird I aimed at, someone yelled out, "Who's shooting that cannon?!?" The answer for that question didn't come until a little later that evening, but suffice it to say that my heirloom 870 I was using was really my Grandpa's old turkey gun. 28" barrel with a full choke and I had been using up some of the older shells I had pilfered, which were old Remington "high-brass" shot shells in slightly heavier loads. It really was pretty loud!
Just after that question had been raised, I winged a bird that landed out in the middle of the pasture. I went out to retrieve it, and came across my first "not dead" bird. Hmmm....
I stayed out there for a bit trying to figure out what to do. My buddy called out and asked what I was doing still out there as it was supposedly keeping the birds away. "It's not dead!" I hollered. "Well, kill it!" he shouted back.
This became my dilemma: how to kill the bird. No one had ever said anything about how sometimes the bird may not be dead when you go to pick it up! Let alone did they ask if I knew what to do in case! My first thought was to just aim, pull the trigger, and blow its head off. Naw, that will just destroy the bird and waste it. Then in my infinite wisdom, I got an idea...I'll just beat it to death!
I'll set the picture here for ya... I'm on my knees, in two foot tall grass, shot gun in hand, and I'm just wailing on this poor dying bird with the butt of the stock! Every hit doing nothing more than pushing this little bird's head deeper into the dirt. His little eye blinking at me as if to say, "What the (bleep) are you trying to do here?"
In the middle of this fiasco, I hear, "What the (bleep) are you doing?"
"I'm trying to kill it like you said!"
"Pop its head off!"
"HUH?"
I ultimately, didn't have to do that procedure as the bird did end up dying. Although it was probably from laughter at me.
On future hunts for years after and still to this day, whenever someone drops to their knees on the ground and acts like their pounding sand with their gun, the questions is always asked... "Who's this?"
"KEN!!!!!"
Footnote to this first hunt:
While the story above is the highlight reel, it was not the only story-worthy memory from that hunt.
I did get better about killing all the birds I shot at (or at least I thought I did). As the sun was setting, we all gathered around the trucks and were getting ready to start cleaning birds. I had already been to the truck a couple times to drop off birds from my vest and into the cooler I had brought.
As we all gathered around, I went to open the cooler and get my birds out. As soon as the lid opened, a dove came fluttering out and tried to fly away. My buddy instinctively grabbed his shotgun and shot it before it got 30 yds away. Everyone looked at me...
"What? He was dead when I put him in there!"
I truly thought the bird was dead. He had been in my vest for at least 15 minutes after the shot, and then at least another 30 minutes in the cooler.
Either way, the 2nd shot got him!
"Get up! Let's go fishing."
Comment